[02-23-06]

Like a solar eclipse but far less random is the elusive double CD release party. Lo, here at the primarily electronic nightclub The Red Room, Mint Records kindly bankrolled the release of The Buttless Chaps’ seventh album and the sick-of-being-compared-to-Belle & Sebastian Young & Sexy’s hotly anticipated third. I’d never been to this venue before, and, to be honest, its close proximity to Hastings (crack central here in Van) and the subsequent shootings outside had me a little nervous, but the open dance floor area and cabaret-style seating sure puts The Red Room at a level above Richard’s On Richards peeling-paint banisters. Having built up a substantial cult following over these many years, the combined hometown crowds of each band obviously necessitated a venue of this size, but the class of this more-recently-renovated-than-Dick’s joint was the cheese in my grilled. Hey, you can’t go wrong with a $5 pint glass of peach margarita.

With the blossoming crowd inside by the time Young & Sexy hit the stage, there was almost a birthday party atmosphere in the East side cavern (care of the crazy dancing, post-punk, post-Barenaked Ladies opening locals The Doers), which took a sudden turn towards a sullen, forgotten birthday once the sombre interpretation of urban decay that is Y&S kicked in. Amid subtle monitor problems, they didn’t really hit stride till after "The City You Live In Is Ugly," which was just in time for the harmonizing required by muse chanteuse Lucy Brain and guitarist Paul Hixon Pittman for "Your Enemy’s Asleep," a song that took on more of a Shins feel live. I know, particularly with their first album (2002’s Stand Up For Your Mother) and its surrounding output, that their emphasis is/was on alienated, morose seriousness—but I wasn’t the only one who thought Lucy’s voice sounded more dynamic once she seemed to lighten up a bit and let a few smiles across her face, coincidently when a trumpeter/keyboardist showed up to make the band a sextet. I actually preferred their earlier releases before this set, which picked a selection of tracks covering all three records, but the live versions of their more traditionally indie rock-sounding, newer Panic When You Find It tracks brought them to life in a truly rewarding fashion right before my ears.

The assless ones took the stage without a word, launching straight into songs mostly from their newest Mint album. While previously exploring the uncommon dichotomy of new wave and country in great depth, the Where Night Holds Light-heavy set rested more on indie-tinged alt. country… so don’t let the country tag scare you. Garth "Dr. Pepper" Brooks, these guys ain’t. This here is a rare case of trumpet, accordion, banjo, and keyboards (among other things) all together at last. This mêlée betrays an open-mindedness that is crucial to the endurance of worthwhile independent music.

After five studio and two live albums, there’s a pretty good chance you know your shit. And so, the accurate renditions of the new Buttless tracks weren’t surprising. But while they didn’t add too much beyond the studio, Dave Gowan’s off-the-cuff musing about "product" (hair gel), the obligatory Chaps cover of Depeche Mode, and their live energy in front of a friendly crowd unquestionably made the trip down worthwhile. They closed out the night on a positive, laid-back note. You can probably tell from the tone of this review that my mind wasn’t exactly blown through the wall, but believe me when I say it’s nights like this that rekindle my faith in indie. Props to Mint Records. Off the back of these releases and Neko Case’s new one, this should be a well-deserved big year for them.

[02-11-06]

The Night of the Living Dopplegangers. I swear up and down I was stuck between folks who looked like Peter Sarsgaard, Adam Morrison, and Dee Dee Ramone—an odd trio to envision—but that’s what a show billing Sir Richard Bishop and Akron/Family will bring.

I walked in just as Richard Bishop began his set. If you’ve never seen Bishop work his magic, then you’d be in for a real treat. This is another in a long line of classic Bishop performances. The man is able to make one guitar sound like an army of them (take that, Broken Social Scene!) with little effort. Watching his fingers move so nimbly across the frets becomes mesmerizing. There are times when you forget about the actual music being produced and just focus on figuring out his tricks. Once you do snap out of the trance and listen to the sound, you’re blown away by how Bishop is able to switch from the gritty sounds of the OK Corral to a playful cover of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," before launching into a 15 minute collision of quiet tones meeting deafening strums. He had the crowd by the ear, and those who didn’t know him beforehand would never be able to forget him.

As Akron/Family began setting up for their whirlwind performance, I listened in on the crowd. Many seemed swayed to check out the band from an article written by The Stranger—one person even quoted it to the best of his memory. I got a chuckle because they were expecting some Dylanesque performance of folk rock that they would never get, though Akron/Family would tease them with "Awake." Many in the crowd were lulled into a false sense of calm and nostalgia while others waited with baited breath for the real surprises to begin. And the minute the band exploded into the frenzied beginning of "Moment," some eyes lit up as most faces tried to stop their jaws from dropping. No longer was the group behind me talking about Dylan and how beautiful the first song was. They were now in the midst of a fray, and not one of them knew what to do.

From then on out, it was a battle of attrition. It was Akron/Family versus convention, and the four Brooklynites were willing to pull out all the stops as the crowd quickly melted into their hands. Whatever the band wanted, they received. The band teased the crowd with haunting melodies and bone-jarring jams. They kept us on edge throughout the night, and no matter how jovial their conversations with the crowd were (even promising to bust out some CCR if we were good), everyone expected them to blow the roof off at any moment. We were hostages with friendly captors.

When the bird calls, slide whistles and harmonicas were unleashed to herald "Future Myth," the crowd was ready to spend their last amount of energy as the song devolved from a ruckus tune into a wall of distortion and tribal drum beats. As we all prepared for the big sendoff and a chance to catch our breath, one by one the band began to climb off the stage and congregate in the middle of crowd. Armed with a banjo, an acoustic guitar, and small percussives, the band launched into a beautiful sing-along, even getting the crowd to "drink the kool-aid." Soon the room swelled as everyone loudly sang "Love and space" on a loop. It’s one of those rare moments when a band trusts its crowd and gives back the best way they know how. After the campfire moment, the boys gravitated towards another part of the room and tackled Neil Young’s unappreciated "For the Turnstiles." The crowd was once again moved to participate, this time without the goading from the band. When they finally returned to the state for one last go, everyone left standing had been converted. No one left without a smile, and no one would ever forget what they had just witnessed. Akron/Family transcended the music and actually reached out to their audience with no hidden agenda or false pretense. In a musical world brimming with cynicism and criticism, it’s nice to have bands like Akron/Family nurturing a heartfelt family mentality.

Photo: Emily Wilson

[02-10-06]

Located in sunny southeast Portland, Oregon, the Doug Fir is a hip little hangout that just might make you nauseous, depending on what kind of person you are. The Doug Fir screams pretension with its log cabin walls, neo-lounge lighting scheme and Frank Lloyd Wright feel; hipsters adorn the place like gargoyles at Notre Dame. Sarcastic dig aside, the Doug Fir is a fine establishment. One-third restaurant, one-third bar and one-third venue, there is always a good-sized crowd. The venue itself is in the basement and is a medium-sized room, making it a great place to see a show; there are no bad sight lines and the sound is usually spot on.

Tonight’s crowd was rather sparse during the set by Portland-based openers, The Out Crowd, Matt Hollywood’s post-Brian Jonestown Massacre project. Being the chronically late person that this reviewer is, the majority of The Out Crowd’s set went by without my beaming presence. The last "song," however, was a 20-odd minute drone of guitar, feedback, keyboards, and one grubby looking dude in sunglasses sitting in a chair, every so often ripping pages out of a book into a microphone. As the jam seemed to be winding down, an apparently annoyed Matt Hollywood set his guitar against his amp and walked off stage. Guitarist Elliott Barnes stopped Hollywood and appeared to ask him a question; Hollywood appeared to answer, shaking his head and pointing to a light that was shining onstage, apparently in his eyes. The jam went on without him for another five minutes until each member ambled offstage, the grubby-looking guy with the book languidly bringing up the rear.

The Bay Area band Film School was up next. Despite the pompous name and the dippy-looking hat that singer/guitarist Krayg Burton insisted on wearing, (think Duckie from Pretty in Pink) Film School proved themselves to be an engrossing live band, full of energy and effects-heavy songs lying somewhere between shoegaze and The Cure. Film School’s set began with guitarist Nyles Lannon, a tall, lanky dude with long blonde hair and horn-rimmed glasses, playing a few notes and letting the pedals do the rest. Burton soon joined in, as did keyboardist Jason Ruck, the wall-of-sound eventually segueing into "On and On," the first proper track on their new, self-titled album. The upbeat "Pitfall" was next, its bouncy bass line bounding along until the song makes a switch to an Interpol-style progression at the halfway mark. Throughout the show, bassist Justin Labo cavorted around the stage, acting as the very personification of his bouncy, melodic bass lines while Ruck stood placidly in the shadows, adding his keyboard textures in virtual anonymity. By the time set closer "11:11" erupted into its huge, dancey conclusion, the audience was dancing, and one girl had burst forth from the back of the room to flail about in front of the stage. A more enthusiastic endorsement could not be had.

One of the best things about seeing independent bands is that they very often have to set up their own equipment, which, for a band like Dead Meadow, could have a detrimental effect. Watching drummer Stephen McCarty with his delinquent beard and Charles Manson hair carry out his huge-ass bass drum with a Celtic design on it kind of kills the aura of mystery that the band seeks to evoke on stage. Luckily for Dead Meadow, they had a secret weapon in their hip pocket: a smoke machine! Nothing creates mood faster than a Chauvet F-650 Hurricane Fogger turned to the "Oregon Coast" setting. On Dead Meadow’s last album, the sublime and psychedelic Feathers, the quartet managed to combine the heaviness of their past albums with the ambient swirls of shoegaze and psychedelic, even adding a little acoustic guitar to the mix. In a live setting, the now three-piece (temporary?) Dead Meadow loses all pretense of subtlety or texture; loud, heavy and thick are the order of the day.

With the green backlight and sitar drone loop in full effect, Dead Meadow took to the stage. Guitarist Jason Simon played a couple of notes on his guitar, and the brief sound coming through the Orange amplifier was enough to cause a small intestine to unwind. One girl crinkled her brow, perhaps lamenting the fact that she left her earplugs in her other jeans. Simon looked at bassist Steven Kile and then at McCarty and nodded. McCarty clicked his sticks four times and the pummeling began with "The Whirlings." Each note picked by Simon was like a sledgehammer to the gut. The crowd was covered in a thick, sludgy tar of huge distortion that, for awhile anyway, even managed to overpower the drums and the bass. In the most acid casualty sense, it was actually possible to "see" the riffs cut across the room, their edges pixelating under their hugeness. Riff after riff came and went and the crowd became more and more amped, which, at a Dead Meadow show means they’re swaying extra hard.

The set was heavy with material from Shivering King and Others as well as new songs that, according to a source, are so new they don’t even have titles yet. The show peaked with "At Her Open Door" from Feathers, an amazing song in any capacity. Live, the song is utterly mind-blowing, clearly the band’s bread and butter number. The build-up at the end of the first half of the song resolved itself with a droning chord punctuated with the occasional wah-wah solo; the song lost none of its power despite the missing 2nd guitarist. The set ended with "Through the Gates of the Sleepy Silver Door," a 13-minute opus that plods along until a drum breakdown that would make John Bonham proud finally beats the song into submission. Throughout the show, the girl without the ear plugs had tried various times to use her fingers to block the sound, but by the end of the show had given up entirely. The sound was just too huge and Dead Meadow too awesome to continue the fight.

Set List:

The Whirlings
Such Hawks Such Hounds
Good Moanin’
What Needs Must Be
Everything’s Going On
New One #1
I Love You Too
New One #2
At Her Open Door
New One #3
Babbling Flower
New One #4
Sleepy Silver Door

[02-02-06]

Jeff Tweedy’s solo tours have become the stuff of legends. The audience is guaranteed classics from Tweedy’s [almost] 20 years of performing. A little Being There here, a splotch of Anodyne there, and hopefully a taste of Down by the Old Mainstream. On this particular Groundhog’s Day, there was no talk of seeing/not seeing shadows or Bill Murray movie of the same name—just some fantastic performers leaving it all on stage.

But before the ladies could swoon over Tweedy’s mangy appearance, they swooned over Wilco’s equally dreamy drummer Glenn Kotche (pictured). It’s a little intimidating to walk into a theatre and see a drum kit set up. You fear the worst. No one can sit through an hour’s worth of drum fills and solos (unless they’re a dedicated Dream Theater fan). However, Kotche’s set was a knock out that didn’t rely on cheap drumming tricks but rather on the various sounds and samples he could coax out of every piece of percussion he had at hand. Kotche started out his set with the surprisingly upbeat and multi-layered title track from his upcoming solo album, Mobile. He followed it up with the marathon "Solo Interpretation of the Balinese Monkey Chant." Starting off with chirping crickets, the song builds into a fervor of unique drumming, percussive tricks and innovative sampling. Kotche uses his kit as a magic hat, pulling out various toys and devices to create unusual sounds that become part of a song instead of upstaging it. Watching him drum solo just makes a Wilco fan appreciate his talent even more. By the time he closed his set with a musical interpretation of the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are and a couple more cuts from the forthcoming Mobile, I couldn’t help but think his talents may be wasted in Wilco no matter how outlandish the band may grow.

With a tough act to follow, Jeff Tweedy strolled out on stage and launched into "Sunken Treasure," silencing the naysayers with a flawless performance of a Being There favorite. Of course, as soon as he finished the screamers started flinging requests and adoration at Tweedy. After a few more songs, Tweedy finally acknowledged the screamers with the best jokes and observations I’ve seen him throw out. Tweedy has finally arrived as a performer comfortable talking in front of a crowd. I can’t do the stories justice, but there were just as many laughs as there were claps and yelps of appreciation. Tweedy peppered his comedy routine with plenty of fan favorites. "Bob Dylan’s 49th Beard" never sounded more crisp; "Pieholden Suite" was as beautiful as ever; "A Shot in the Arm" held the same desperation as the full band version. Tweedy also threw in "The Ruling Class," an upcoming cut off of the latest Loose Fur album. The track tackles Jesus’ return in a humorous light.

The first encore started off with "I Can’t Keep from Talking" before Glenn came back out to accompany Jeff on some of the more rocking numbers. After various requests throughout the show, Tweedy and Kotche obliged the crowd by playing "Laminated Cats," along with crowd pleasers "The Late Greats" and "Heavy Metal Drummer." The duo exited once more before the crowd coaxed Tweedy back out for the highlights of the show: "Gun" and "Acuff-Rose." It’s always a pleasure to hear Uncle Tupelo songs in a live setting, and even better when it’s just Tweedy and a guitar. The crowd left full and satisfied, full of stories to tell those who didn’t make the show. Just ask any of them about Tweedy’s new gym regime or the self-assuring voices in his head—you’ll be in for a storytelling delight.

[02-01-06]

Accordion! Homo-eroticism! Chanson Française! We are merely players!

Last Wednesday, I had just finished eating some mushy rice and vegetables and was casting uninspired glances at the mess I had left on the stovetop when Edith, landlady extraordinaire, arrived breathless at the door, telling me she had tickets to a concert that was starting in 20 minutes downtown. I bundled myself up and clambered into the front seat of her Peugeot, and a scant quarter hour later I was sinking into a first balcony seat at Cité de Congrès. I arrived knowing little about the music I was about to hear. Edith had mentioned something about "chanson française" on the way.

This was a show in an old sense of the word, like a vaudeville variety or a riverboat nickelodeon. The chanteuse was a giant woman with a curly mane of black hair, belting out everything from lovelorn breakup tunes to dispassionate tales of ennui to jazzy Latin rumbas. She held down center stage with a shoulder-width stance and swaggered around in pirate boots, leather pants, and a black, ankle-length topcoat, tossing off one-liners and playing the straight woman in a handful of running gags that gave her top notch, six-man backing band a chance to cut loose. These guys showed off killer chops on everything from train whistle and kazoo to upright bass and piano. Of course, being chanson française, a jaunty accordion finagled its way into a number of songs where it probably didn’t belong. All the more charming. The lyrics were all French, but many songs had a Latin intonation, claves and classical guitar busking around Juliette’s brazen alto. The set strutted at a brisk, cocky pace, with non-sequitur skits and a technical difficulty with the piano, giving the audience a chance to take a breath and fall in love with the characters on stage. They handled the piano problem so well that I’m not sure it wasn’t a planned part of the act.

In my favorite piece, the lights went down and the band came on stage with big military marching drums and glow-in-the-dark drumsticks. Juliette rattled off some lyrical commands and her boys put on the best percussion routine I’ve seen since the high school pep rally. A cute, "spooky" number followed, where two guys dressed as railway porters performed a dance routine I can only call The Sodomite Choo Choo. In the next song, again with lights dimmed, Juliette and Co. got their haunted house vibe on, the band scampering about in newspaper masks and rubber noses. They shot fuchsia glowsticks out of a flute and danced around a goblin face painted on the back of the bass. For the first encore, Juliette planted herself on the paino bench at the center of a smoky cone of spotlight and proceeded to carefully clobber the keys while evoking memories of her childhood. The second encore was a surprisingly competent rendition of "Honky Tonk Woman," introduced as a work by the noted English poet "Michel Jaguerre."

The leading lady of this spectacle pulled off one of the wild manipulations of time that great performers do: a two and a half hour concert bowled past me in what felt like twenty minutes, and I’ve been thinking about it for two weeks since. This was clever musical theatre that put questions of identity and character into play without ever failing to elicit chuckles and admiration of some versatile musicianship. Juliette went at the "performance" with gusto, then had us believe that we were hearing from the "real" woman as she chatted and deadpanned in the down time between songs. The least hip and most enjoyable show I’ve been to in months.

Merci Edith!
Vive Juliette!

Photo: Lisa Roze

[01-30-06]

There are some bands that compel me to track down every bit of information about them, whether it’s band members’ names, place of origin, favorite animals, or social security numbers*. Deerhoof is not one of those bands. Before the show, I didn’t know much about the group, except for their music.

That’s why it was a surprising to see the members of the band. A tiny, Asian woman and three anonymous-looking white dudes? It was hard to believe these people were the force behind Deerhoof.

This was the feeling particularly after the barrage of supporting acts. It was an odd combination featuring musicians, a dance troupe, and most painfully, two sets of short films by Martha Colburn. The movies were not particularly enjoyable; the shock value wore off after watching so many shorts in a row. Colburn’s work was like a film version of Kathy Acker stories. During the first set of films, the venue was relatively empty and most people watched silently, not knowing how to react. But by the second set of shorts, the polite crowd grew restless. "Deerhoof! DDEEEERRHHOOOOFF!!" they clamored for the headliners.

After the interesting opening acts, it was underwhelming to see the band finally come on stage. However, they played an excellent set. One would think that their catalogue is full of simple, childish songs, but the band proved these songs need precision and power in their delivery. It was exciting to see how physical their performances were. The drummer—Wikipedia says his name is Greg Saunier, and y’all know Wikipedia don’t lie—was absolutely wild, flailing his arms in every direction. He wasn’t just about banging the drums, either; he also sang some lovely backup vocals to guitarist Chris Cohen’s lead in "Odyssey," one of the highlights of the night. "Odyssey" countered the more psychedelic, noise-fueled parts of the show with a more straightforward, calm song.

Another highlight was "Running Thoughts," which has one of the most beautiful melodies Deerhoof has ever created. The band members took their musicianship very seriously, especially guitarist John Dieterich, who had this demonic look in his eye as he made sure to play his parts with accuracy and energy to spare. It was as if he was possessed to rock and he’d be damned if anyone got in his way.

It’s curious that, although singer Satomi Matsuzaki was full of poses and cool moves, nothing she or anyone else in the band did felt pretentious. There wasn’t much band/audience interaction, but it was palpable that there was a mutual respect between the band and the audience. Throughout the night, Deerhoof played material mostly culled from The Runners Four, which came out last year. However, they did encore with a spirited version of "Gore in Rut," which ended with many a Deerhead screaming along, "BUNNY! BUNNYYY!!" even though the song was over. The enthusiasm was heartwarming, and so were the thanks that each member gave to the audience. It was an extremely pleasant surprise to see a technically-proficient, fun band who prioritized playing a good show over annoying rock star antics.

*=editor’s note. Sorry, elizabeth u (no, our writer is not a stalkerish psycho).

Photo: Maak Newton

[01-25-06]

OHMYGOSHOHMYGOSHOHMYGOSH!!!

That’s all I heard as Coldplay took the stage. Girls’ screams were enveloping me, and I knew there was no escape. At first I was reminded of ancient horror movies and the thoughts that go through the victim’s mind before the screams finally subside into gruesome death, but somehow I escaped the bloodbath. Of course, another thought came into my mind: This must be what the Merry Prankster felt during their ill-fated journey to see the Beatles. Somehow the music isn’t as important as making sure your girlish scream is the loudest and you prove your fandom above all others.

I should state that I had no intentions of ever seeing Coldplay—at least not in this setting—but considering I have a lady who happens to love Coldplay and I can easily tolerate them, I bit the bullet and figured that at worst I could tap my foot along to "Clocks" and chalk up the evening to a learning experience. Thankfully we got our money’s worth when Fiona Apple was announced as the opener. That’s all I needed to change my attitude.

Of course, how would Apple’s intimacy translate with an arena audience? Very well in all fairness, so much so that she even had to acknowledge as much. Apple started off her opening slot with a couple of tracks from her latest, Extraordinary Machine, before erupting into old classics such as "Shadowboxer," "Criminal," and "Paper Bag." What amazed me is how animated and happy she was during the whole set, either energized by the beaming crowd or the warming introduction given to her by Chris Martin. Apple’s greatest strength was making up for her raspy and overworked vocals by putting in an emotional and soulful performance. After sprinkling a few more tracks from her latest album, she closed the set with a frantic and bouncy version of "Fast as You Can." She had won me over all over again.

I wish I could say the same for Coldplay, but it’s not for a lack of trying. Say what you will about the value of X & Y, but tracks such as "Square One" and "Talk" thrive in the live setting much more than the album could capture. However, the light show was too much to bear. For fear of seizures and burnt retinas, most people turned away from the hectic and oft-changing lights. They blinded the crowd from actually seeing the show. Even when Coldplay turned down the lights to perform a set of "Til Kingdom Comes," "Trouble," and a butchered version of "Ring of Fire," it was too late. Most of the crowd was ready to be done with the whole production. Coldplay’s folly lies in their acceptance of U2’s crown, and the spectacle has certainly overshadowed the music, no matter how many acoustic breaks they throw into the show.